Scattered Eternity
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: A series exploring the loss and redemption of Lily Proudfoot, the love that Frodo had to leave behind for the Quest, and later, for the journey to the Undying Land. Based on Cuthalion's "Chestnut and Honeysuckle."
1. I Remember The Wind That Night

**_Title: _****I Remember The Wind That Night__**

** Remember The Wind That Night**

I remembered that it was raining when first we kissed. I remembered the wind that night, coming through the half open window, carrying the smell of wet earth as he lay beside me and held me in his arms.

I remembered all the notes that made up the music of his love. I remember all the times that he spoke my name: in a velvety lilt just this side of shy, in hoarse chants as our frenzied dance rose to a crescendo, in a half-sob that spoke of wonder and amazement, in a low whisper against my skin, in a murmur in his sleep_.  _Iremember his sleepy laughter when I tickled him awake. I remember the lazy conversation I had with him in the dark, his hand twirling a lock of my hair around his finger while I tried not to fall asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. He once sang an old, slow ballad in a low, murmuring voice, and I remember asking him about it. He said the song was of a hobbit who had found his true love. I never saw him look as happy as he was that night at the beginning of April.

Then something must have happened that he never told me about. There was talk of his leaving Hobbiton, and when I asked he only said that it was true. That September, a day after his birthday, he went away. He never explained why, even after his return.

Somewhere along the cruel paths that he had trodden, his music had changed; twisted, maimed, broken. His voice was that of a stranger: polite and gentle, but cold and distant. I was filled with joy to see his return, but soon I realized it was not him who came back arrayed in the glittering garb of some faraway lands beyond my imagining. Humbled and at long last resigned, I watched him vanish once more, this time right before my eyes. He still lived in his smial up the Hill. But he had disappeared all the same. And this time, I was certain he would never come back. Where his song once was in my soul, there was only stillness.

Then one night—I remembered it was the day before his birthday—I heard a knock in my door and when I opened it, he was there. I invited him in, the way I welcomed a distant relative who came to tea. The conversation was stilted at first, but when he suddenly asked, in a very quiet tone, "Will you forgive me?" the dam broke and words and tears fell in torrents.

He did not leave because of something that I did. His quest changed him in ways even he did not fully understand and he wished to spare me the horrors and the anguish. No, there was nothing I could do, there was nothing anyone could do to ease the memory of his burden.

"Do you still love me?" I asked. "Do you remember loving me?"

He held my hand in his and I saw the gap between his fingers. His eyes when they met mine were neither ashamed nor afraid, but the sadness and hollowness in them chilled me. When he stroke my face there was a painful look in his eyes, as though he was trying hard to remember how it felt to love, to desire, to surrender the heart and mind and body. But I saw that his grief and pain had robbed him of that memory and his loss tore at my heart.

When I led him to my bed and undressed him in the dim light of the candles I had wished not for the ardor that would melt us into a single being of flame and heat. When I traced my fingers on his bare skin it was not to re-awaken the past now buried deep. When I kissed him it was to show him that that part of my heart that was his had survived the cold, uncertain months unscathed and unchanged. When I held him close it was to thank him, to let him know that I would be all right, that he could move on, that my love would endure.

He reached out and softly ran his hand down my cheek. I remembered that his touch used to feel like sparks of fire that tingled on my skin. A mere brushing of our fingers used to singe me with a sudden longing for the warm pressure of his hands on my body, for his searing caresses that sent me soaring to that place where I was suspended in limitless brightness and profound serenity. His touch was the open window to his heart that showed me more clearly than mere sight could ever tell the tenderness of his feeling for me, because even when desire blazed within him, his fingers were gentle upon me, as though he feared of hurting me. The contrast between the wild fire of passion in his eyes, in his voice, in his whole beautiful body, and the nearly reverent touch of his slender hands on my heated skin was one of the memories I treasure of the days before.

His touch now reminded me of the day we sat side by side by the bank of the Water, my toes dipped into its currents, water swirling, sliding against my skin. It was soothing, comforting, but transient, like hurrying water in the brooks. I did not know those hands that glided over my skin; that left hand that felt colder than the rest of his body, that right hand with the ring finger missing, they seemed to belong to a different hobbit. His touch made me feel lonely, because when he caressed me with the back of his hand for an instant I still burned, but I saw no echo of that flame in his eyes. I saw longing, yes, longing and love. But there was pain there, pain and regret, cold and grey like ashes. And like a sudden rain that put and end to a stifling summer day, his touch ended the passion even before it was kindled. We lay there side by side, my fingers painting a picture of wistfulness on his pale skin, probing the scars that scattered where my lips used to lay hungry, impatient kisses, trying to find the hobbit who used to set me on fire by a single touch. He was not there; what remained was the broken and charred shell of the radiant jewel of a hobbit that he was. And when he touched me again, I shivered. Yet I held on, because loving him was more than fire and flights into the very Sun and Moon. Loving him was like breathing, and even when the air was so cold it burned my lungs and turned my heart into ice, I still needed it, as I knew he did.

I knew he sensed that I longed for what once was. He knew I only wished that he would stay. I knew he was saddened by what he had become. He knew I loved him nonetheless.

It was a long, still night. But before the break of dawn he sang a song in a language I did not understand before his silent tears began to fall onto the white pillow. I soothed him and comforted him and he fell asleep in my arms.

In the morning he told me he was leaving. This time I knew I would never again see him. I made him breakfast and as I poured his tea I asked what was the song he sang the night before.

"It was a song of the High Elves," he explained softly. "They say that the Sea tastes like tears."

I remembered the wind that first night after he left. It had carried a strange sharp tang and faint sounds I did not recognize. I remembered it because last night, years and years after he was gone, I smelled that scent in the air again. I went to sleep with his name on my lips and dreamed of a vast body of water bordered by the sky. I could hear his voice. His laughter was once again the sound of sunshine and merry summer bonfire. When I woke I tasted salt on my lips and I knew that I had seen the Sea.

He was waiting.

---


	2. Unspoken

**Unspoken**  
  
The well-worn though spotless apron; she folded it and laid it in the basket, on top of her small wooden box of midwifery tools.  
  
_"Another rough one?" his voice poured over her, draping her with a warmth that spelled out home even when she was standing in the unfamiliar clutter of Bag End kitchen. She snuggled closer into his embrace, reveling in the feel of his strong body holding her up, his arms making gentle, soothing motions along her tense back and shoulders.  
  
She nodded numbly. "They both died," she bleakly started. "I couldn't save them."  
  
"Oh, dearest," he sighed, rocking her slightly, as she began to sob. "I'm sorry.  
  
She had been calm and in control when she broke the devastating news to the disbelieving father. She was all efficiency and common sense as she took over the preparation for the burial of the mother and the stillborn baby. But now, in his arms, the last remnant of her threadbare façade of composure was scattered and lost. She clung to him as he helped her out of her cloak. She still wore her apron underneath it. It was crisp and clean; she had only put it on when she went to the kitchen to help throw together a simple meal for the two older children who had woken up confused and motherless. Her other apron, stiff from the speckles of dried blood, she had left bundled in Farmer Thornbough's washroom, along with the sheets and blankets from the birthing bed. She reeled from the memory of hours spent in the growing conviction that death was imminent. His arms tightened around her as she swayed.  
  
He guided her to the armchair near the window. There was a tray with some buttered toast, a jar of preserves, a cup of tea and a pot of honey on the low table next to the chair. He sat down and pulled her to his lap, wrapping a quilt around her shoulder. She rested her head in the crook of his neck, closing her eyes. Any other day she would laughingly withdraw. For one thing, she had no wish for him to think of her as weak and helpless. For another, there was that unresolved question about the future of their trysts. She was fond of him, adored him even, and derived endless pleasure from the knowledge that he seemed to enjoy their time together as much as she did. But she had also promised him that she would not shackle him to her side. She would glory in his blazing touch and basked in the glow of his eyes, but he would never claim her heart in the way that would only leave her languishing like ember in a bed of ashes when he decided that he had had enough. It would be wise, she thought, to be prudent and cautious. A lovely afternoon of overbright light behind her eyes and a spreading fire that ignited her flesh and blood was all very fine. But she had vowed that her heart would remain untouched. When the end came—and it would; she was under no illusion that what they had would last—she wanted to meet it with a brave smile on her face.  
  
But her vow turned out to be a most trying one to keep. It was all too tempting to believe that there was a world beyond their brief escapes into a world all their own. She wished she could have steeled her heart against the alarming ease with which she trusted and relied on him. But some days she found that she could not summon even the flimsiest will to resist.  
  
She could have taken the left turn on the juncture from the main road and arrived at her smial in very little time. Instead she had followed the path up the hill, she had opened the gate to his garden and knocked on his door. And it was the simplest thing to do to fall into his arms when he appeared at the door, a frown of concern on his brows. It was the only thing to do.  
  
Only for today, she promised herself as she inhaled deeply, drinking in his scent of pipeweed, wood smoke, ink, tea and sleep. Only for this moment, she repeated to herself.  
  
"Here," she heard him whispering as the smooth curve of a cup rim was pressed against her lips. "It's still warm. Have you eaten anything this morning?"  
  
She sipped the tea obediently. It was warm, and sweet, and with his quiet presence shoring her up it was the very thing she needed to soothe the frayed edges of her nerves. "No," she shook her head a little. "I couldn't. I still can't."  
  
She waited to hear his reproach but he only kissed her moist lips and cupped her cheek in the warmth of his palm. "Will you try to eat a bit for me?" he asked quietly, looking into her eyes.  
  
She let him feed her small pieces of toast, liberally buttered and generously slathered with preserves. Outside the day was getting lighter. She heard birds chirping on the newly clothed branches of the trees in the garden. But in the warm kitchen of Bag End, the only sound to be heard was the clink of cup on saucer, the crackle of fire, punctuated by the occasional encouraging murmur "Just a little more, love. That's it."  
  
He was dipping a piece of bread into the pot of honey when she blurted out "She was my childhood friend, Merle was. We used to make doll-clothes and hats together. She made the loveliest laces and ruffles …" Her voice faded as she looked down at her fingers, lying plaited on her lap. Small hands that brought little help when her dear friend was fighting a losing battle with fate. Small hands that reeked of the metallic smell of blood. Small hands that remembered so much coldness on pale, lifeless skins. She shivered, feeling all of a sudden vulnerable; haunted, and frightened.  
  
He tipped her chin up, seeking her eyes. She held his gaze, a window to light and life when despair closed in around her like shadows in the deepening dusk. Her breath came out shaking and desperate. Then she leaned in and kissed him.  
  
There was a frantic urgency in the way her lips closed around his. Touch me, she begged, warm me; remind me what life was, remind me that I was alive. Take me where pain would not reach me, where sorrow had no place, and there was only light and life-giving heat coursing, singing through my veins. Touch me, she cried out with her frenzied kisses, free me. Save me.  
  
She woke much later, after a long, dreamless sleep, on his bed. He was lying beside her, his arms wrapped around her, and transient or otherwise, she knew that whatever they had between them, it was truth. _  
  
  
  
Small leather pouches, tied with strings, whispering of the dried herbs they contained. She picked one and pressed it against her nose. Could she do it this time, she wondered, seeing him again, hearing his voice again.  
  
_"Thank you for coming," Rose said, taking her cloak as she hesitated at the doorway she had not crossed in many long months. "I should have come fetch you myself, but I can't leave Sam alone with Mr. Frodo. Not now. He might need something."  
  
She smiled wryly as she followed Rose along candle-lit corridors. She knew she did not need a guide to show her the way to his room. Had she not found her way to that room quite a number of times before?  
  
She found herself gazing at once familiar corners. The stack of books here, the pile of little wooden boxes there. Memories sprung afresh from recesses she thought she had securely sealed in her mind. Why did she agree to come? Why did she jump at the chance to return? There was nothing here for her, there had never been anything, she thought bitterly.  
  
"Sam's in there with him," said Rose, pointing at the open door to the room she knew so well. "I'm making tea. Shall I get you some?"  
  
She murmured a vague affirmation, barely aware of Rose's firm footsteps going in the direction of the kitchen.  
  
She stood in the doorway, running her fingers on the curve of the doorjamb, suddenly breathless as memories of liquid fire and lightning-bright light assailed her. Remembrances, vivid and fresh: of carefree laughter, of whispered words and the feel of a soft smile against her skin, pulsed within her and she put a hand to her mouth to stop the sob that suddenly rose in her throat.  
  
Logs sputtered in the roaring fire that bathed the room in a golden glow. A small basin, a jug, some cups and bowls and little bottles crowded the top of a table she did not remember was there by the bedside. On a chair sat Sam, hunched, his face buried in his sturdy hands.  
  
She lowered her bag to the floor and settled onto the bed opposite Sam.  
  
"Miss Lily," she heard Sam gasped. "You've come. Thank you. I … we don't know what else to do."  
  
There was nothing beautiful in suffering; pain was ugly, bitter and merciless, she thought, shocked at her own revulsion at what she saw. She was no stranger to taking care of sick people and usually it took a lot to rattle her. But this…  
  
"He didn't want the healer to see him," she dimly heard Sam say.  
  
Claw-like fingers that clutched like talons on tangled, sweat-dampened bed sheets; skin pale as snow, pulled taut over cheekbones so prominent as to make the face unlike any hobbit that she knew much less the one who had held her heart captive since the night she saw him dancing.  
  
"I've tried everything, but naught seems to work. He just keeps getting worse." Sam's voice quivered with a hint of tears. She heard a faint scuffle, a sniff and the sound of the fireplace being raked as shadows fluttered on the walls. "Rosie said we'd better get you here. She reckoned, with you around, maybe he'll remember a better time, not something out of the journey. They might help bring him around; keep the bad dreams away at any rate. Not meaning to be rude, miss. But…he was that fond of you. He still is, I think."  
  
Bloodshot eyes fixed unseeingly at the sloping ceiling; a look of terror and pain slashing deep lines in a face that showed nothing of its former dazzling loveliness. What kind of horror was it that had so viciously marred him?  
  
What was Sam saying? Something about a knife wound and shards that remained in the flesh, poisoning it and robbing it of life?  
  
His voice when he wailed was harsh and cold, filled with fear and hatred. "You will have neither me nor the Ring!" he cried hoarsely as he fought to flee an unseen enemy. Was that the same voice that could spark a smile on her voice with a single greeting; the same voice that once lifted up in a beautiful song that she alone had heard; the same voice that painted in her mind the images of faraway cities and valiant deeds of long ago?  
  
His arms trembled, stiff and icy cold. His right hand clutched and tugged desperately at a white gem that hung from a long silver chain around his neck. His limbs twitched restlessly as nightmare upon nightmare riddled his already pain-troubled sleep. Nothing remained in his movement of the radiating warmth of his body or his youthful grace. Nothing remained that was him.  
  
She stared at the mask of agony and torment before him and wondered if her heart would still stir for this pitiful ruin of the hobbit she once loved.  
  
If love meant a wild burst of joy upon seeing him again or a barely restrained outpouring of need at a touch long yearned for, then no, she had none of that. If love meant that her heart bled to see him suffer, that she wept in pain with each of his helpless whimper of untold grief, then yes, she still loved him. But who did she love? The hobbit of her past, the one that paled the Sun with his smile and shamed the stars with his eyes? Or this wretched remnant of a soul without a home? Could it be mere pity that she had for him now—the kind of compassion she showed old dogs and hungry stray cats?  
  
Hours, long and slow, passed as she stayed beside him. There was no comfort, no respite in tending to such a grievous illness. There were some of the last of autumn flowers in the clay jar on the table near the window, but the smell of sickness, of untouched potions and untasted teas, fear and exhaustion lingered, clinging to her skin, seeping into her clothes. She traced the ridges of his spine with a wet cloth, numbed by the sight of deep, hideous scars that crisscrossed his pallid skin. This was an illness beyond her knowledge and skill, she thought. This was a wound beyond her aid; a wide and intractable gulf that took him beyond her reach. She ran her fingers through his damp, silver-speckled curls and she knew that what her heart felt mattered no longer. He was dying. That much she understood. Her love could neither bring him back nor heal him.  
  
Morning of October 7, 1420 arrived pale and windy. She started from a brief doze to find her patient sound asleep, looking finally at peace and rested. The chair where Sam had kept his vigil was empty and there were sounds coming from the kitchen. She stared at the sleeping hobbit before her, sliding her hand through his hair.  
  
Her lips remembered the curve of his brow, the slope of his closed eyes. His skin was cool, his lips parched, his breath soft against her face.  
  
"Farewell," she whispered, standing up and taking her bag from the floor.   
  
She turned to leave, then paused. She thought she heard his voice murmuring her name, but when she looked closely at him to make sure, all she saw was the peaceful face, clearly deep in slumber, a soft smile lifting the corners of its lips.  
  
She made a hasty departure, turning down Sam and Rose's invitation for breakfast, promising that she would come again to check up on their beloved Mr. Frodo. But she knew that she would never again step inside Bag End._  
  
Marigold opened the door for her, and greeted her cheerfully. "Oh, I'm glad you're here, Lily! Sam's been fretting like a mother hen since he sent Nib to fetch you. He nearly went tearing down the Hobbiton Road to look for you himself."  
  
Lily smiled as she hung her shawl on one of the many pegs on the rounded wall of the foyer. "First time fathers," she chuckled. "If only they stayed that way by the time the third baby was on the way." _Is he around?_ she found herself wondering.  
  
Marigold laughed. "The way Rosie screams at Sam, I'll be surprised if she has a second."  
  
"How's Rosie?" _Where is he? What am I going to do, to say, if we meet?_  
  
"Oh, she's doing great. She even says she still has time to cook something for Mr. Frodo's dinner and then set the dough for tomorrow's bread…"  
  
_What a silly thing to do, worrying about meeting him again. Why, he probably will stay as far away as possible from Rosie's room. There is no reason why he should be near. Except for Sam, maybe. But even so…_ She glanced through the open door to the study. The desk at the far end of the room held an untidy stack of paper. The fire was lit and candles glowed in their brass holders around the room, but there was no one there.  
  
"Why doesn't Rosie go back to Bywater to have the baby?" Lily asked as they rounded another corner.  
  
"Well, you know her and Sam," said Marigold. "They'll never think of leaving Mr. Frodo alone. They're really set on pampering the old hobbit. Besides, Mother Cotton came with me the minute we got the news." A door was open to a brightly lit room at the end of the corridor and a lively talk floated merrily from it. _Can I still pick out his voice?_  
  
She heard laughter, different voices blended in a warm chorus of mirth.  
  
_How is he?  
  
He's dying. Leaving. He's… _  
  
"…then Merry said 'Mummy, if I can't have a pony for my birthday, can I have a baby brother instead?'"  
  
_It's him._ The sound of his voice, rising strong and steady, brought a smile to her lips. _It's Frodo._  
  
She entered into a room full of chortling hobbits. There were Mrs. Cotton, of course, and Daisy and May. Jolly stood near the fire with his arms crossed. Rose was in bed, looking quite comfortably cushioned by Sam, who sat with his back against the headboard. Frodo sat by the bed side, holding everyone's attention with his tale. Then Daisy saw Marigold come in with Lily and with her exclamation, the relaxed atmosphere changed.  
  
Frodo stood and turned toward the door.  
  
_He's been ill again_, Lily thought. _He's still recovering from it._ She noted the sunken cheeks, the dark circles under the unreadable eyes…  
  
"Hello, Miss Proudfoot," he greeted her softly with a slight nod. "Thank you for coming so promptly."  
  
"Mr. Baggins," she returned politely. _Friendly acquaintances, that's who we are now. Nothing more_, she reminded herself. "How are you doing, sir?"  
  
"I'm well, thank you," replied Frodo with a smile. "Thanks to Sam and Rose here."  
  
_There used to be a time when I could read his heart in the way his eyes shone when he smiled.. Now, his smile is a cloak to hide his pain and his eyes are veiled. _  
  
"Oh, well, fun's over lads," said Mrs. Cotton, sounding so business-like that Rose groaned, eliciting a concerned question from Sam and a chuckle from the others.  
  
His laughter still sounds beautiful. How does he do it, feigning a joy he doesn't feel?  
  
"I have to examine Rosie," Lily announced, taking out her apron.  
  
Jolly kissed his sister before leaving. May and Daisy went out to the kitchen, leaving Marigold and Mrs. Cotton with Rose.  
  
Frodo took Rose's hand and patted it gently. "You will do beautifully," he assured her before looking at Sam. "I'll be in the study if you need me."  
  
He turned and walked toward the door, a smile—still lovely, for all it did not reach his eyes—still quirking on his lips. He brushed past Lily. Their hands touched. His was cold, hers warm. They paused and gazed at each other. Then Frodo smiled, nodded courteously and went on, leaving the door closed behind him.  
  
**_Epilogue_**  
  
_I can still remember the shape of her eyes, the curves of her lips when she smiles, her voice. I remember the feel of her skin. I remember her laughter.  
  
I remember. 'It' failed to take those memories from me.  
  
I remember.  
  
I will never forget. She will, perhaps. She must. But I will not._  
  
end


	3. Longing

Longing   
  
Once, not long ago, this place must have been a jewel of timeless grace and splendor. The towering effigies still gaze West with sadness and longing on their beautiful faces, even though cracks and blotches brought on by the changing seasons have begun to mar their perfection.  
  
Little fountains that no longer dance to the music of water now gather dust and decay in stoic silence, though their flawlessly sculptured bowls still flaunt delicate carvings done long before the Shire was even born. And on the twin arms of the firth lifeless dwellings stare back at me with lovingly crafted windows to emptiness and cold that knows no respite. And even in this ruin I can see undeniable, powerful beauty. You have always loved the Elves and the beauty that seems to be their very lifeblood. I run my fingers along the subtle patterns of the marble pillar beside me and hear again your voice reading for me the glorious vision of _Gondolin_. And I know, I painfully realize, that grace and charm hold no meaning until they are captured in _your _voice, anchored in _your_ presence.  
  
_I miss you._  
  
I stand here in the midst of all this beauty and wonder if the clouds blushed just that way when you set foot on the ship that bore you away from your past, from the land of your birth. _From me. _  
  
Night lends its blue and purple to the sky now clothed in flame. Day after day, weeks chasing one another across years flying past like the gulls soaring above me, I have come here. I have seen hundreds and hundreds of sunsets that defy the words of even the most silken-tongued of the elven poets, and still this loveliness holds me entranced, enraptured, in awe --  
  
-- until my eyes catch sight of the horizon, an unbroken line of the sun dissolved. Empty. _Empty_. You are not here. Never again will be. The sea is empty. Empty. _I am alone. _  
  
Afterwards, even the wind weeps with me.  
  
FIN 


	4. The Last Dance

_**The Last Dance**_

_Hobbiton, Summer, 1489 SR_

Her eyes, blurred though they were, could still catch the sight of the bride gazing with shy adoration and vulnerable tenderness at the beaming handsome face of Elfstan Fairbairn. _ I know how you feel, child_ she whispered in her heart _for once I have looked upon beauty myself, and I have loved. I still do._

She sat in the cushioned wicker chair under the shade of the mallorn tree, watching the lovely couple dance in each other's arms. They were smiling. Elfstan whispered something in young Rosemary's ear and she blushed.

_Oh, lass, I know it too: the thrill of hearing the voice of one who loves us. He will say your name, child, and you will treasure the sound of his voice calling you-remembering it the way you would a song-and one day, someday, you will hear it in the crowd and you will turn, thinking it is him, only to find that it is nothing but the ruthless game your memory plays on you. _

Elfstan let go of his bride and went to the low wooden stage where the musicians greeted him with laughter and applause. After a short, whispered discussion, they started another tune, a slower, gentler one, and as Rosemary stared with unabashed love, Elfstan sang an old, sweet love song.

_He sang for me too, child, long ago. He laughed with me and he wept in my arms and we talked idle talks as though the world would forever be the smell of honeysuckle outside my window and the long, slow caress of his lips against mine. How easy, how simple everything was before that day when his destiny summoned him and he obeyed._

Elfstan jumped down from the stage at the end of the song, to the thunderous clapping of all the hobbits in the Party Field. Fastred and Elanor came over to dance with the bride and groom. Elanor was still The Fair for all that she was nearly seventy. Her golden hair still gleamed in the light of the candles and her face could still put many of the younger lasses to shame, and her feet were nimble as she let Elfstan lead her across the dance ring.

_It was the night of the Fair, a full-moon night, and the dance ring was a complicated pattern of young lasses in new ribbons and colorful summer dresses, and the lads with their sleeves rolled up and their waistcoats unbuttoned. The music was endless, as was the laughter and the shouts, as the pattern shifted and changed, and couples let go of each other and flung themselves into another partner's arms. I saw him dance with the pretty dark-haired Bolger, and with the sweet Brownlock lass with dimples on her cheeks. My heart fluttered in jealous anxiety with each smile he gave them, with each graceful bow he did before his next partner. Then the music signaled another switch and I found him standing next to me, and when he gazed at me, and his eyes smiled that secret language only the two of us spoke, I was the only lass on the dance ring. I was his last dance. We both left the ring at the end of the music._

_Oh,lass, I've tasted all, from the sweetest dreams and promises, to the bitterest moment when no music was playing and there was only pain and anger and despair. You might think my life was as empty as my little smial, as cold as the touch of my gnarled fingers, as tired as my bent back. But once, my dear, I have loved. I have touched beauty and it has made me beautiful. Once, there was passion in my life, and it felt like being born again, that surge of life that pulsed in my veins when I so much as thought of him. Then there was the fear and terror when he left. Then came the heartache, and grief, when I knew he would never, ever return. With him sailed what was young, innocent and hopeful in my heart. Ever since, love has always meant sacrifice, one I gladly made and never once regretted. _

_Only sometimes, the memories are so sharp, and the longing hurts more. I wish you, child, a fate kinder than mine. _

"Mother Lily," called Goldilock softly. "Leaving so soon? Is everything all right?"

"Oh, don't worry, dear. I'm fine." The old hobbit rose with difficulty from the wicker chair. "It's time my old bones get back to the comfort of my room. Besides, I'm tired of telling all these eager lads that I have neither legs nor head for all this swirling new dance." She gave Goldilock a smile and a wink as she wrapped her shawl closer around her frail frame.

"Wait here a moment, Mother Lily," said Goldilock, already turning toward the tent that housed the kitchen. "I'll have Cook fill a basket for you to take home and I'll get Faramir to walk you to your smial."

"Thank you, love," murmured the old hobbit as she watched the Thain's wife hurrying away.

She stood there, leaning on her cane and trembling, gazing at the blur of party dresses and fancy waistcoats on the dance ring. The music was fast and merry and many voices joined in the song while hands clapped to the rhythm. A hum of conversation, sprinkled with the tinkle of silver on plates, drifted in the sultry air.

_Lily._

She gasped and blinked several times, searching desperately in the milling crowd in front of her. That voice...

_Lily._ Still gentle, though more insistent.

_His voice... But that's... Impossible._

_Lily, come with me. Come with me, dearest._

She turned and took a few steps toward the edge of the field.

_I'm here, my love. Come with me now._

Convinced, yet doubtful; hopeful, yet afraid, she hobbled painfully away from the party.

_Frodo?_

_Yes, dearest. I'm here._

_Frodo..._

_I'm here. Come, come with me._

Past the low hedge that bordered the dirt road, up the gentle grassy slope behind a palisade of oak and linden, she staggered on. Her shawl slipped from her shoulders and fluttered in the evening breeze before resting on the cool grass. Her breath began to come in harsh gasps but still she climbed the hillock, until finally she came to a small clearing in the middle of a jagged circle of trees. And he was there, waiting for her.

She could not take another step. She stared, unblinking, at the figure standing under the moonlight in the center of the clearing.

She had always thought of him as beautiful, but it seemed such a paltry word now to describe the luminous being that stood before her, smiling, with his arms open to welcome her. He appeared so much like the hobbit she fell in love with a lifetime ago, but there was another side to him that she never saw before, a touch of wisdom in his eyes, a look of joy and peace on his face. An ageless face, she noticed, unlined by care, so young, almost childlike, but for the knowledge in those eyes that spoke to her in the language she had not forgotten. Love, devotion, desire.

She tucked a stray curl of silver behind her ear and was suddenly reminded of the stiffness of her fingers and the wooden cane that still tremblingly bore her weight. She remembered the face that gazed back at her from the mirror and all the signatures left by the long years that had passed since last he saw her.

_Lily._ He smiled.

She choked back tears.

_I am not your Lily. I have changed. I am old, I am nothing but a dried husk now. _

_You are beautiful, Lily. You always are._

He closed the distance between them in a few strides and he held her, he held her close.

Her cane fell to the grass when she let it go so she could touch him, feel him and silence the last flickering trace of doubt in her heart. She could feel his warmth even through her layers of clothing. His scent reminded her of a spring morning. She reached and ran her trembling fingers on his face; through his thick, shiny curls; down to the back of his neck, and yes, there was still that scar there, but there was no darkness in his eyes when her hand swept over it; into the fine, light fabric of his shirt and across the warmth of his chest toward his shoulder, and yes, there was still that raised mark there, but it was not cold, and he did not twitch in pain as her fingers rested there. She reached down and took his right hand from her waist and brought it up, staring at it, rubbing her thumb on the scar that was left where his ring finger was.

He shook his head softly to answer the question she could not make herself voice. _No, they don't hurt me anymore, but they will remain. This,_ he put his slim, wiry hand on the fingers she laid on his shoulder, _and this, _and gripped her left hand with his right, _stay with me because they are part of who I am, part of my past deeds and future choices. As you are, my dear. _  
  
She closed her eyes when he cupped her face in his hand, and with his touch all the legacy of time melted away from her, all the pains of a hard life and old age disappeared. His fingers caressed heavy, auburn tresses and in his embrace she was once again the youthful and lithe lass with sparkling eyes and rosy blush on her cheeks.

"I've missed you," she sobbed, finally burying her face on his shoulder, "I've missed you."

"I've waited for now," he murmured into her hair. "I've waited for you."

"Don't leave me again," she whispered. "I can't bear it."

He said nothing, but his lips touched hers, _I'm yours_, and she knew that for them, the longing had come at last to an end. There would be no more farewells _forever forever forever_.

_Frodo._ To hear, to speak that name again, to be near him, to know that they had found a safe harbor where they could rest and leave the darkness of the past behind them; she never thought any of it could happen. _My Frodo-love._

_My Lily. My love._

_She hears a faint music, soft, yet beautiful. Even in the meadows when the wild flowers are blooming she never smells such fragrance. Is it morning already? She feels warm and a bright light seems to be surrounding her. She laughs, she is so happy. They are dancing now, she and Frodo, and in her mind all the steps are flying them higher, higher, until finally she knows that the music is a song of the stars, and the heaven is their dance ring._

They buried her the next morning beside the grass-covered grave of her father. Her name they engraved on the headstone, a solitary inscription; there was no name of a husband, no children's names. Even there, on the cold stone soon to be mottled and faded by moss and Sun and rain, she was alone. Hobbitwives she had helped on many birthings came and laid flowers on the damp, red earth, chattering in a hushed tone about how serene she had looked when they found her in the clearing.

Before noon the little graveyard was deserted once more. From an unkempt, weed-infested corner wafted a faint scent of honeysuckle, floating in the breeze that rustled through the leaves of a tall chestnut tree that loomed over the wilting petals strewn on the grave of Lily Proudfoot.

fin


End file.
